The Almost Adventures of Sensible Kate Milligan
by PerennialChild
Summary: Chp 6: In which Voldemort gets a new wardrobe, and Benny is accosted. "Crowley lived in terror that someday, that disgusting little tongue was going to actually touch his face, and he was going to lose it. Tear the head off of his most loyal follower."
1. Chapter 1

**The Almost Adventures of Sensible Kate Milligan**

**Chapter One: The Polar Express**

On Christmas Eve, Kate lay in her bed. She did not rustle the sheets. She breathed slowly and silently. She was listening for a sound—a sound her friend told her she'd never hear—the sound of her parents' feet padding on the hardwood floor as they put gifts into her stocking. Her friend was naïve enough to believe that he'd hear _Santa's bells_ as he delivered gifts, instead. How ridiculous. Any kid with a brain knew that the only rational explanation for modern gift distribution was that the _parents _were responsible. This "Santa" character, if he truly existed, would have to be some type of plutocrat, only giving the best gifts to the rich kids, whether they were good or not. And _that _was totally leaving out the issue of the existence of magic.

Later that night, Kate did hear sounds, but not of padding feet, nor yet of ringing bells. From outside came the sounds of hissing steam and squeaking metal. Half-thinking there had been some sort of accident outside of her home, Kate whipped out her cell to dial 911 and looked out her window. She saw, to her surprise, a train standing perfectly still in front of her house.

The train was wrapped in steam. Snowflakes fell lightly around it. It looked disturbingly natural there in her front yard. A conductor stood at the open door of one of the cars. He took a large pocket watch from his vest, then looked up at the window, right into Kate's eyes. Creepy. Curious, Kate put on her slippers and robe, and tiptoed downstairs and out the door.

"All aboard!" the conductor cried out. Kate walked up to him.

"Well," the conductor said, looking miffed, "Are you coming?"

"Where?" Kate asked.

"Why, to the North Pole, of course," was his answer. "This is the Polar Express."

"I don't have a coat on. Or boots," Kate said. "And anyway, when would I get back?"

"In time. The train will depart soon," the conductor said, sounding flustered. Kate wasn't looking at him though; she was looking at all the children she saw pressed up against the glass. She didn't recognize any of them. She noted the make and model of the train before turning her attention back to the visibly irked conductor.

"My mother told me never to take a ride with strangers," Kate said reasonably. "And I have to agree. Whatever's going on here looks shady. Kidnapping children in the dead of night? Telling them you're going to 'the North Pole'? Right."

Kate dialed 911 in her pocket as she spoke. It was only when she began to raise the phone to her ear that the dumbstruck conductor sprang into action, wildly trying to grab her arm. She dispatched him quickly, kicking him in the groin and hitting him in the jaw, leaving him groaning on the ground.

"Good thing Mom made me take those self-defense classes," Kate muttered. "What a pedophile."

The police arrived within a few minutes, and were able to free all of the children kept captive in the train. Shock blankets were administered. Although some of the children whined about "not being able to see Santa," they all complied with the authorities and were taken safely back to their homes. The sheriff was a bit confused as to how a full-sized train made it onto Kate's lawn, but he promised that it would be disassembled and taken away by morning.


	2. Hogwarts

**The Almost Adventures of Sensible Kate Milligan**

**Chapter Two: Hogwarts**

When Kate went to get the mail, three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from her father's sister Mildred, who was vacationing in Hawaii, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and— _a letter for her cat._

Kate picked it up and stared at it critically. No one ever, in her whole life, had written to her cat. Who would? Harriet Parsnip couldn't read, at least she couldn't last Kate checked. And, even assuming that cats _could _read, Harriet was pretty sure her cat had no friends or other relatives who would write to her. She was a stray. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake.

Ms. Harriet P.

The Pink Bedroom

303 Echo Rd, Vestal, NY, 13850.

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.

Turning the envelope over, Kate saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter _H_.

"You planning on coming back anytime soon?" her father called.

"Yeah, sorry," Kate called back. She went back to the kitchen with the mail, reading her cat's letter along the way.

"Looks like Harriet got some spam," Kate said carelessly, tossing the opened letter onto the table with the rest of the mail. "Dunno whether it's a prank from a friend _pretending _to be a scam school, or an _actual _scam school with a crazy good surveillance team and a phenomenally stupid staff. This is just… unreal."

"Let's see," Mr. Milligan said, reaching for the letter. Quickly scanning the heavy parchment, he choked back a laugh.

"It's… it's certainly a _creative_… prank," he gasped. "Says here our little friend Harriet is being offered a scholarship to a school in England… a… a… _wizarding _school!" Unable to hold it in any longer, he laughed, long and raucously. Kate grinned.

"I'm sure Harriet isn't against going to England," she said playfully. "Let me see it again." The letter had it all—official-looking signatures, a list of wizarding equipment, and even a reply-by date. "Someone put a lot of thought into this," she noted.

A good five minutes was spent at the table deliberating over who could have sent the letter, but neither Kate nor her father could come up with any plausible theories. It would be a funny story to tell Kate's mother though, when she arrived home from work.

But the next person to come knocking at the door wasn't Kate's mother. It wasn't even FedEx, which was supposed to be delivering a package that day. It was a man, decked out in fluorescent green robes, holding a box and looking distinctly uncomfortable on the Milligan's small front porch.

"Hullo, sorry," he said when Kate opened the door. He had a pronounced British accent. "Is, er, is this package for you?"

"For my brother," clarified Kate, taking it from him. "Is, er, is your outfit the FedEx holiday uniform?"

The man stared at her blankly for a moment. "May I come in?" he croaked.

"Sure. Dad?"

"It's alright," Mr. Milligan called from the living room, turning off the TV.

"I'm sure you know," the strange man said, when he'd settled primly on the edge of the couch, "About the letter sent to your residence earlier?" He stared at their blank faces for a while. "I was sent from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"Oh, yeah, I got that this morning," Kate chirped. "What was that all about?"

"Right. Well, we realized that you might also have gotten some letters from our competitors as well, so I was sent to assure you that Hogwarts has the best-value magical education in the world, and to help you work out with your family your schedule for next year, should you choose to enroll." He looked slightly out of breath when he finished.

"Sorry," Kate said, sharing a confused look with her father, whose indulgent smile was fading fast. "I—we thought that letter was for my cat. This is a joke, right?"

The man looked affronted. "Well, you _are _Miss Harriet Potter, are you not? And _that,_" he gestured wildly to her father, "is Mr. Vernon Dursley."

"Um, my name is Kate Milligan," Kate said slowly. "That's my father, Jeffrey Milligan. Are you alright?"

The man had suddenly turned very pale. "There must have been a mistake in the mailing address," he muttered softly. "I don't know how, but there must have been. Just wait until they find out… I could never do a Memory Charm correctly…"

"I'll go get the letter," Mr. Milligan said uncomfortably, lurching out of the room. This was all too surreal. He needed some aspirin…

Mr. Milligan's words seemed to jolt the green-robed man into awareness again. "No bother!" he screeched. He leaped up off of the couch. "Really, it's no bother! I'll just—you didn't see anything!"

And then, with a small _pop,_ he disappeared.

Kate cleared her throat. "Well, that was weird," she said softly to her cat, who had slunk quietly into the room. Harriet P. just purred.


	3. The Lion, the Witch, and the Closet

**The Almost Adventures of Sensible Kate Milligan**

**Chapter Three: The Lion, the Witch, and the Closet**

The Faun looked a little discomfited when Kate refused the tea, so she felt compelled to explain that no, really, she hadn't meant to be rude, she was just brought up a Mormon, and they believed that tea was generally bad for your health, although Patrick Stewart looked pretty amazing and he'd been drinking Earl Grey religiously for who knows how long—

But the Faun, Mr. Tumnus, obviously didn't know what she was talking about, so she shut up right about then, and accepted the eggs and toast he offered. Then Mr. Tumnus began to talk. He had wonderful tales to tell of life in the forest; about midnight dances and how the Nymphs in the wells and Dryads in the trees came out to dance with the Fauns, about feasting and treasure-seeking with the wild Red Dwarfs in deep mines and caverns far beneath the forest floor, summer tales of intrigues between gods and children of the forest.

It was all very beautiful, like a bedtime story. Kate was close to dozing when the Faun bit off from storytelling for a moment to remark gloomily, "Not that it isn't always winter now."

"Hm?" said Kate, one of her eyes popping open. "What are you talking about? Winter's just starting up, what with the holidays and everything."

"Holidays?" the Faun asked, as if she was speaking a foreign language.

"Yeah. Narnia must be a pretty strange country, if you guys don't celebrate holidays. Guess that's what happens when you're tucked away behind someone's closet and no Crusaders could come along to spread the joy of Christmas," Kate yawned. The confused v-shaped divot between Mr. Tumnus' eyebrows grew more pronounced. "Crusaders?" he asked.

"But," she said solemnly, patting him on his bare shoulder, "You can come back with me and see for yourself. You have a visa, right? Do we need to worry about border authorities? I didn't see any on the way in."

"I do not know what authorities you speak of," Mr. Tumnus said slowly. "The only authority I know of is the authority of the White Witch. Her authority is…terrible, and…. immense. She has got all of Narnia under her thumb." He swallowed, eyes widening in remembered terror.

"I don't know whether that's a racist slur or the name of a woman wrestling champion," Kate said thoughtfully, "But for a totalitarian ruler this White Witch _really _sucks at border control. I just waltzed in, no problem. C'mon, let's blow this popsicle stand, if it's so terrible. We've got a proper democracy where I come from."

"Oh, it's no good late _now_," the Faun sobbed. "I've taken service under her. If I don't do what she says, she'll have my tail cut off, and my horns sawn off, and my beard plucked out, and… do you know what she wants me to do?"

Kate was trying not to retch; the Faun's description of his punishment was a little _too _gruesomely detailed for her comfort. "What?" she gasped.

"I'm a kidnapper for her, that's what I am. It's my job to hand you over to the White Witch, you or any other human that might enter. But you're the first one I've met." He sniffled pathetically.

"Guess that makes _you _the border authority then," Kate grinned. "This is great news."  
"Sorry?"

"That means you can just bounce off into my country, no questions asked. C'mon, it'll be great. The White Witch can't cut off your tail in America, not without the agreement of my government. And something tells me," she looked at the Faun's horns appraisingly, "that they're not gonna be willing to give you up, if it comes to that."

"You promise she won't be able to hurt me in a Mere-ica?" Mr. Tumnus asked eagerly, seemingly enchanted by her words. Kate nodded curtly. "America can do anything," she assured him. "I learned that in school."

And so they left Narnia together, arm in arm.

oOo

It was only when they'd shut the closet door and settled on Kate's bed that Mr. Tumnus began thinking seriously of the ramifications of his decision to leave. When Kate began to show him the wonders of daytime television, he grew more uncertain than ever. This Patrick Stewart really was remarkable, were all Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve like that?

"The White Witch wanted me to kidnap you so that you wouldn't be able to bring back Aslan to overthrow her," he said, during a commercial break. "I didn't think it was possible before, but now I think it could happen. Maybe we should go back."

"Dude. Star Trek isn't real life, Mr. Tumnus. I'm eleven, I don't even have access to a Glock, let alone a taser. How'm I supposed to take down a White Witch by myself? And who's Aslan, anyway?"

"There's a prophecy," the Faun said uncertainly. "I think, I can't remember it all that well." And he told her about Aslan, and the Emperor-over-the-Sea, and everything else. Kate listened intently through it all, her frown getting deeper as he went along.

"My mother says that people who make prophecies are usually high on something," she said dismissively, when he was finished. "And this Aslan character, well, it looks like he ditched you guys. I'm sure if he had the power to save Narnia, and he wanted to do it, he _would _have done it by now."

"What about your govern-ment?" Mr. Tumnus said hopefully, "Will it be able to help?"

Kate sighed and ducked her head. "I may have misled you," she said apologetically. "Truth is, America is terribly isolationist, people are pitching all sorts of fits about the war we're engaged in now, and we didn't even get involved in World War Two until we were _bombed_. I don't think declaring war against Narnia is looking all too likely at the moment."

"Oh," Mr. Tumnus said, disappointed. Suddenly he missed his little hovel, and how uncomplicated life was before this Daughter of Eve showed up practically on his doorstep. He reminded himself that Christmas and television was better than being in the service of a terrible Queen like the White Witch. But he knew he'd miss his friends, and his flute. "May I go for a walk?"

"Feel free," Kate said, sympathetic. It was only later that she realized she really ought to have warned him about going out in public without covering his horns and hindquarters.

The only thing they could think to charge him with was public indecency. He wasn't wearing any clothing, after all.


	4. Framed and Misunderstood

**The Almost Adventures of Sensible Kate Milligan**

**Chapter Four: In which Kris Kringle is brutally murdered and the Winchesters fail the Bechdel test.**

_A/N: __**This **__is why the fic is rated T. Once the Winchesters get involved, people begin swearing left and right with no signs of stopping. What pottymouths._

_More news: I just re-read the latest chapter of _It's All in the Details _today. And I realized that Kate Milligan wasn't a random name I'd plucked out of thin air, even though I thought it was. That was embarrassing. It was like that one time I thought I'd made up a song before finding out it was the soundtrack to _Elf. _I have no creativity, apparently. Someone probably wrote this story before, too._

Dean didn't show up for Christmas. He _had_ shown up a few weeks beforehand, when Sam had first holed up in Amelia's home, and almost kicked the door down after Sam slammed it in his face. Their subsequent fight had been loud and protracted, and Sam was just glad that Amelia was at work then. She didn't need to see him trying to strangle the brother whose death he'd mourned so deeply. It would have raised questions.

Not surprisingly, the kicking, punching and yelling didn't end up resolving much. Now that Sam knew Amelia still wanted to be with him, he made an ultimatum: no hunts, unless they were directly related to Kevin Tran and finding the Word of God. Dean's lip curled when he heard that, as if Sam was this revolting _thing_, and stormed off, muttering something dark about "family" and "responsibility" that Sam would probably have punched him for if he could make it out clearly. And while Sam did feel like a huge asshole after it was all over, he still felt like Dean was being a _bigger _asshole. Dean and his stupid grudges, his secrets and frigging God-complex. Sam was sick to death of it.

But after spending a few days simmering down, and under the quiet suggestion of Amelia—who was awesome really, and should've been canonized long ago—Sam forgot most of his rage and even took steps to reconcile with his brother. He invited Dean to Christmas dinner, bought him a crappy gift by way of tradition, and even spent hours scripting an Epic Speech of Apology. He didn't want to cut Dean out of his life, he'd never wanted that, and maybe if he made that clear, they could put all this drama about Amelia and Benny behind them. Maybe things could finally be okay between them.

But Dean didn't pick up the phone anymore, and Christmas came and went without a single word from him. His presence was noticeably absent from the dinner table, and Sam nearly crushed the glass in his hand when he realized that it was probably just because Dean couldn't _stand _the thought of Sam sharing the holiday with Amelia, too. He'd never even bothered to meet her.

The rage came flooding back. And although he put on a show for Amelia, not wanting his first real Christmas with her to be a disaster on his account, part of his mind was gone through the night. So it ended up being Amelia who answered when, exactly one hour and forty minutes into _It's A Wonderful Life_, someone knocked on the door.

oOo

The man at the police station was actually very good to Mr. Tumnus, and even went to the phonebook to look up the Milligan's number when Mr. Tumnus couldn't remember it. If he were to be honest, Mr. Tumnus reminded him a bit of his sister's son, who was born with Downs syndrome and occasionally did unusual things as well, like walking around outside in freezing weather half-naked and dressing up as a goat.

Well. Maybe not that last part.

So when Mr. Milligan and his daughter showed up, he was very kind and considerate, explaining slowly that Mr. Tumnus was mostly brought in so that he could get warm, but his goat costume didn't exactly cover his genitals either, and that made some people uncomfortable. He nodded sympathetically while Mr. Milligan apologized, and assured him that of course, they could take him home right away, if Mr. Milligan would just sign a few papers.

Kate ran right up to the poor man, who was plucking at his new sweatpants with a vaguely horrified expression.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Tumnus, I didn't even think to warn you about going outside," she said, agonized. "Please cheer up, we're going to take you home right away, and I'm sure you can borrow some of Dad's clothes."

Mr. Tumnus looked up, and his eyes were pained. "I've never had to wear clothing in my life," he confided. "None of my friends ever did. Mere-ica must be a terrible place, if people are forced to wear clothing all the time, and arrested if they don't. I should never have left Narnia."

"No, don't say that, please," Kate pleaded, wringing her hands. "It's not so bad. We have Slurpees and roller skates and football, and there are plenty of places you can go and not have to wear any clothing, I'll show you. You'll never have to wear any in my house either, I swear. Please don't leave!"

Mr. Tumnus sighed. "I won't yet," he promised, "although I do miss my home. Is there… are there pubs in Mere-ica? I'd like to visit one right now."

"I'm sure we can find one downtown," Kate said, eyes wide and earnest. "I'll see if Dad'll lend us some money to go. And I'll find you some shoes and a coat."

oOo

Amelia Richardson opened the door expecting to see a burly man with a military haircut and a huge grin, a man matching Sam's description of his brother. She put on her best warm-and-welcoming smile, prepared to say something warm about how wonderful it was that he'd decided to come over, wouldn't he please come inside. But when she opened the door, what she saw instead was a very serious looking man with a rather spectacular bedhead, wearing an oversized trenchcoat. He was very obvious _not _related to Sam, and she had no idea who he was.

"Hello, Mrs. Richardson," the man growled, squinting sincerely at her. "Is Sam Winchester here?"

"Uh," she said eloquently, warm-and-welcoming smile freezing in place. "Yeah. You a friend of his?" Because as far as she knew, Sam hadn't given this address to anyone he knew other than his brother. This man's presence was unexpected, and just this side of disturbing.

"I believe so," the man said. "Though at times it surprises me. My name is Castiel. May I come inside?"

Not sure what she should do, she beckoned the man in, ushering him to the living room and Sam before muttering something about making coffee and bolting to the kitchen. Something about him unsettled her, and she planned on making herself scarce until he was gone.

"Your home is very beautiful," Castiel intoned, when Sam failed to greet him. The angel had difficulty interpreting the strange noises issuing from the hunter's mouth, and the unusual color his face was turning. "I'm sorry to interrupt your celebrations."

"How did you… since when did you learn to knock?" Sam said when he found he could form words again, because for some reason that seemed to be the most important issue at hand.

Castiel looked at him like he was an especially retarded child who'd just thrown up on his shoes. "Dean once informed me that it's always best to knock before entering when a 'lady friend' is also in the room. I infer he was referring to his reluctance to being interrupted during sexual intercourse, but I wished to be polite."

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. _Of course that's why, that sounds just like Dean, why did I even ask, why is this my life. _"Um, okay," he said awkwardly. There was a moment of silence. "Uh, not to say that I'm not glad to see you, but what are you doing here, Cas? Did you find a lead on the tablets?"

Castiel shuffled his feet, and gave Sam a shifty look. "I, uh, couldn't help but notice that you and your brother appear to have chosen to spend the holiday season apart. I was…" he paused, probably mentally consulting his Dictionary of Emotional Terminology. "Concerned," he concluded at length.

This time it was Sam's turn to stare. Of all of the weird things Castiel had done, and he'd done _many _weird things, this was by far the strangest. An Angel of the Lord, turned relationships counselor? Sam couldn't believe it. "Uh, yes," he said, "I, uh, I guess we are."

Castiel shuffled his feet some more, possessed by an urge to come clean. "So when I heard Dean's prayer, I thought I should… um… see if I could help." It hadn't technically qualified as a prayer; it was more of a wish Dean had murmured while half-drunk, sitting in the Impala alone earlier that evening, but Castiel had always been hyperaware of everything that passed from Dean's lips, particularly when he was drunk. But no one needed to know that.

Sam stared some more, and decided not to ask. "Look, neither one of us has any control over where Dean chooses to spend the holidays. I could send him a million invitations, but if he doesn't want to come, he won't. I've already tried to help him every way I know how. What do you expect me to do?" Without intending to, his tone had become bitter. Castiel honed in on that bitterness, and with a tilt of the head and a squint became an open question.

Sam sighed. He couldn't ask Castiel to fuck off without feeling bad, so it looked like this conversation was going to be a long one. Odd, considering it was Castiel. "Sit down and have some coffee with Amelia and me," he said, resigned. "I'll explain."

oOo

Mr. Milligan supposed he should really be stricter with his daughter, and after picking up her oddly dressed friend from the police station, and being asked to provide money for a trip to a pub, he seriously considered grounding her. But he didn't, partly because his unrepentantly liberal wife would probably yell at him for hampering the creativity of his children with unnecessary restrictions, but also because his life had been a constant parade of strange ever since Kate was born, and he was _tired_. Even her _birth _was strange, what with that stork flapping around the hospital bed and smacking the orderly with every circuit.

So he didn't ground her, and he handed over the money. It was easier than the alternative.

oOo

"So I mean, I don't think we can even stand to be in the same room anymore," Sam said, wrapping up his long list of complaints. Castiel hadn't reacted much throughout the whole thing, but Amelia had put her hand on his arm, and that was comforting. "I tried to be supportive, but I shouldn't be expected to just take all the abuse he's been throwing at me. And what he went through that year with you, I… I can't even begin to relate to it, we're so far apart on this. That's… I was hoping you'd stay 'cause of that, help him get over his PTSD or whatever it is."

Castiel felt a painful twang in his chest then, and hoped it was a reaction to the caffeine. He found he liked coffee, and had had several cups. "Sam," he said, his eyes softening. "Dean will always turn to you for comfort. You should never feel inadequate."

"That's not even the point," Sam sighed. "It's just… my home will always be open to him, and I'll always be there for him if he needs me, but… I _can't_ just take off with him anymore, not unless something changes. Not unless he can accept that I have another life now, too."

"I think I understand," Castiel said, after a moment's thought.

Sam started. "Really? Because I kinda, well, I thought you'd take Dean's side and start telling me off for being irresponsible or whatever about now."

Castiel gave him another odd look, as if Sam had grown a second head. "I cannot begrudge you for seeking happiness," he said reasonably. "Why would I?"

Sam snorted and gave him A Significant Look, but didn't answer. "You sticking around tonight, or something?"

"No. I must continue my search for the other tablets."

Sam stood up at the same time as Castiel, visibly relieved. He didn't feel comfortable with the idea of Castiel hanging out in his house while he and Amelia were wrapping up their Christmas activities. "Remember to use the door then, would you?" he whispered, clapping the angel on the shoulder.

"Of course." And with a polite goodbye to Amelia, he was off.

"I like him," Amelia said eventually, rubbing circles into Sam's back. "He kind of creeped me out at first, but he seems nice."

Sam let out a quiet huff of laughter. "He creeps everyone out," he agreed. "But he's a good friend. Now," his smile grew wider. "Didn't we have _plans _for tonight?"

Amelia just laughed, and they raced to the bedroom.

oOo

"I've never seen this place before," Kate repeats, indicating the pub Mr. Tumnus had chosen. "I swear, that was just an empty space before. There was no building there."

But there was a pub there now, a seedy-looking one with an old wooden sign over it reading _The Old Hat_. Kate didn't even see it until after Mr. Tumnus grabbed her hand and pointed it out. Even then, it looked kind of blurry and vague. "That pub didn't exist before," she insisted, beginning to sound a little hysterical.

"Perhaps you just didn't notice it," Mr. Tumnus said absently. He began to walk up to the door, clutching the odd green piece of paper he was told was money. Kate followed.

oOo

Even when half-drunk, Dean Winchester was still remarkably good at killing monsters. He'd killed two werewolves that night, _two_, even while intermittently swigging a bottle of Jack. Their mistake had been trying to get the drop on him while he was still in the car, because it was easy as fuck just to run one over and pin it while shooting the other one through the unrolled window. He was upset at the scratches the battle inflicted on his baby though, and pumped each werewolf with an extra silver clip for vengeance. Then he settled down to get even _more _drunk.

"You need to stop doing that," a gravelly voice said beside him. "I refuse to heal your liver."

Dean turned to Castiel with a huge grin. "Yeh mithed all th' _fun_," he slurred. "There were _wherewhofs, _see, an' thith _one, _it like, whorked a' _Wal-Mart… _only ate… only ate th' people who were nathty a' th' Cuthtomor Complaint…"

"I'm sure it was very amusing," the angel sighed. "You can't drive to the motel in this condition. I'll take you."

oOo

Dean woke up groaning, but that was normal. Hangovers were sort of a Christmas tradition. When he opened his eyes and saw his best friend hovering over him with a glass of water, he groaned some more.

"Cas. If you have to watch me sleep, could you at least not be here when I wake up?"

"I don't see the point of that," Castiel said, handing him the water.

"Because I don't want to know that you've been watching me sleep, when you've been watching me sleep." He frowned. "Nevermind. You have pills, too?"

"Right here. We need to talk."

"Well give me a friggin minute, would you? I can't think right now." The room was spinning, and even though Castiel had drawn the curtains, the light was still much too bright. He took the pills from him, but suddenly had a much better idea. "Could you…" he tried to give Castiel a pleading look, but his eyes were too squinty to pull it off. "Could you maybe…?"

Castiel's brow furrowed, giving him his signature constipated look. "If you call me every morning after you've been drinking…"

"I won't. It's just this one time. Please?"

After a moment of consideration, Castiel decided that in the grand scheme of things, having Dean Winchester call on him to cure hangovers wasn't so bad, so he sighed and touched Dean's forehead

"Damn, that feels good." Dean flopped back onto the bed. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Your brother."

Dean sat back up. "Sammy? He in trouble?"

"Not necessarily." Castiel frowned as Dean flopped onto the bed again. It groaned in protest. "He spoke to me at length about a Christmas dinner."

"Meaning he talked your ear off and wouldn't let you get a word in edgewise. I know Sam." Dean laughed humorlessly.

"He appeared…" Castiel grappled for the right word. "…upset."

Dean sat up yet again, bed groaning horribly beneath him. "_I'm _upset!" He looked Castiel up and down. "And you should be, too! He ditched _both _of our asses in Purgatory, never even bothered to find out where we were or how to get us back."

Castiel opened his mouth, probably to say something stupid about how he wasn't upset, and why, and Dean really didn't want to hear it. "Don't," he warned quietly. That was just too many damn issues for one morning.

And because the bed obviously hadn't taken enough abuse, he fell back on it again, and stared fixedly at the ceiling. It was bright orange and kind of made Dean want to throw up, but anything was better than looking at Castiel's face.

They stayed like that for a while.

"This thing with Amelia or whoever… It's too much like what happened with Lisa and Ben," Dean murmured, when the silence became deafening.

Castiel flinched, but Dean didn't see it. He thumped the mattress. "I just don't understand why he can't see it! You can't hunt and have a life like that. You can't _be _a hunter and have a life like that. Hell, Mom couldn't even manage it. And you…" Dean turned his eyes to Castiel, face unreadable. "What happened to Daphne, after everything?"

"I visited her shortly after I awoke. She doesn't remember." Castiel's face was carefully blank. Dean looked back at the ceiling.

"Of course," he murmured. A strange sadness seemed to settle around him.

"Regarding your brother." When Dean looked back at Castiel, he noticed his eyes were bright—too bright. "There's a New Year tradition in Ecuador. The people there make paper mache dolls of themselves, and burn them on New Year's Eve. It symbolizes their past selves—their old grudges and mistakes. They rise from the ashes on the New Year, new people with a blank slate."

It was way out on left field, but Dean looked at Castiel, and Castiel looked back, and after a long minute Dean thought he understood. Castiel had wanted a clean slate for a while now, and damn if Dean didn't want one too.

"Looks like they've got something right, huh?" he said softly, smiling. It wasn't like tears were burning behind his eyes too, because they weren't. That would be ridiculous.

Castiel just nodded, smiling tentatively back.

"I'll see you at New Years," Dean said, but Castiel was already gone.

Dean picked up the phone.

oOo

The pub's interior was like nothing Kate had ever seen before. Granted, she'd only been in two pubs in her life; the one her uncle owned being one, and the Irish-themed one her mother had visited for dinner last week being the other. But _this _pub wasn't like other pubs, in that the drinks they served weren't the traditional kind, and the people inside weren't exactly the usual sort of customers. Many of them were wearing brightly-colored robes, and a few of them tapped wooden sticks on their tables.

Some of them weren't even people.

Mr. Tumnus turned to her, clearly excited. "Is this one of the places where I don't have to wear clothing?" he asked.

"I guess."

When they went to sit down, the bartender hardly reacted. They had to wave him down

"Not often we get a Faun around here," he remarked politely, drying a glass. "You have any ID?"

Mr. Tumnus looked confused, and Kate just shrugged. The bartender sighed. "Two Butterbeers then, I'm guessing," he said. "I hope you have money." Mr. Tumnus pushed the twenty dollar bill across the table, and the bartender eyed it with disgust. "Fine then, coming up," he drawled, turning away.

Then there was a shout and a flash, and everything went crazy.

"He's dead!" someone in the back screamed over the din. "Santa Claus was murdered!"

oOo

Santa wouldn't even have been there if one of his train conductors hadn't gotten himself arrested. On kidnapping charges and sexual assault, who would've thought? He'd been told very politely that he could be called on to testify in his trial, if he'd just give out his contact information, but Santa had a nasty feeling that he wouldn't be contacted at all.

Then, when he'd tried to drive himself back to his hotel, he'd gotten a ticket for "speeding," and "driving on the wrong side of the road." Santa had told the policeman who pulled him over that he'd be speeding too, if he had the kind of schedule Santa had, and it wasn't his fault Americans drove incorrectly. It wasn't like he'd caused any accidents. The policeman had scowled and told him he didn't care _how _busy he thought he was, he'd better learn to obey traffic laws. And then he'd been given a second ticket.

All of this merited a trip to the pub. The only promising one in the area was _The Old Hat, _and while it wasn't Santa's _ideal _hangout, at least it had some decent drinks. _Damn wizard's tavern, _he muttered when he walked in. He hated wizards, with their limited grasp on magic and yet huge sense of their own importance. Much like American policemen, he thought.

He didn't know that he'd end up being killed by one.

oOo

"_That's impossible!_" Kate yelled. She'd never believed in Santa, not for one moment, because in order for Christmas to work the way it did he'd have to be a _major _asshole. But the dead man on the floor two not more than a yard away certainly _looked _like Santa, and apparently he _was _kind of an asshole, if someone hated him enough to kill him.

"And _she _did it!" the same anonymous voice screeched, and suddenly all eyes were on Kate.

The bartender dropped the two Butterbeers he was holding. "I knew there was something suspicious about you two," he said faintly, and passed out.

oOo

Sam had been surprised by the call, but he was even _more _surprised when Dean showed up on his front porch the next day, Castiel standing next to him like an awkward date.

"Hello, Sammy!" Dean greeted, grinning like a ten-year-old on a sugar high. Just a little too broadly.

"Hey, Dean," Sam said, because what else could he say? It was like a switch had been flipped, and Pissy Dean had suddenly been transformed into Festive Dean. It was majorly suspicious.

The look Sam was giving him didn't make Dean's grin shrink one bit. "I know we're early," he explained, "But I thought we'd crash at your place for maybe a week. Meet the fam, maybe straighten some things out. But we're not freeloading, we came with a gift. Show 'im, Cas."

Castiel lifted a bottle of very expensive-looking champagne. Sam raised his eyebrows.

"Thought you didn't go for that stuff."

"Honestly, I don't. I brought the good stuff with me, too, because how else am I supposed to get drunk on New Year's?" Dean shrugged playfully. "Now, where's your girlfriend? I'm dying to meet her."

Sam blinked. Something about this was wrong. "Uh, Dean," he said, looking between his brother and the angel. "What about hunting? And the tablets?"

"C'mon, Sam!" Dean slapped him on the shoulder, a little too hard. "That can wait a week. After all, what's more important than spending time with family over the holidays?"

As Sam led them inside, he wondered why he felt such a sense of dread.

_A/N: So I lied. The Winchester bros couldn't make up and I couldn't kill all the other Santas in this chapter because OBVIOUSLY THIS STORY ARC IS TAKING LONGER THAN I THOUGHT ASKJDGLFK. I'm sorry._


	5. Chapter 5: Magical Jurisdiction

**The Almost Adventures of Sensible Kate Milligan**

_A/N: So 8.10, with the whole Amelia thing? It killed me. I mean, yeah, at first I was all like, 'DITCH HER ASS, WINCHESTER,' but I warmed up to her quickly enough and soon was thinking more along the lines of 'ooh, look, Sam can possibly have a love interest that doesn't get killed by a monster or end up being a monster, and there can be MOAR HAPPY HEALTHY RELATIONSHIPS TO COUNTERACT THE CODEPENDENCY YAY!' So I started writing this fic, with that brilliant, awesome end in mind._

_The SPN writers, on the other hand, had no scruples about kicking poor Amelia to the curb. It was sad._

**Chapter Five: In which there is an argument over magical jurisdiction, and Sam is a Private Eye. **

A man wearing a purple robe and a turban stood up on a table, and pointed a trembling finger at a point just over Kate's ear."Sh-sh-she d-_did_," he stuttered. He seemed to find speech more difficult when he wasn't screaming. "I s-s-saw the whole th-_thing_."

Kate paled visibly. Next to her, Mr. Tumnus plucked her sleeve to try and get her attention, but she was frozen in place.

"Ain't that Quirinus Quirrell?" a large woman in deep maroon asked. "What's he doin' outta Europe?"

"B-book signings," Quirrell said, and collapsed.

oOo

Dinner was awkward. It could have been more awkward, Sam supposed, if Castiel had stuck around and continued staring at them like he expected the waterworks to begin at any moment. Thankfully, though, the angel had disappeared almost as soon as he'd arrived, making Amelia fret before Sam explained that Castiel was "on call" and worked "irregular hours".

_What does he do? _Amelia had asked.

_He's in residency for cardiothoracic surgery. _Sometimes Sam hated how easily lying came to him. _Y'know, fixing broken hearts? Sometimes we tease him about it._

No, dinner was awkward entirely because of _Dean. _He smiled incessantly, charmed Amelia with his stories and by gorging on her food, and really was nothing less than a perfect gentleman throughout the entire meal.

It was freaking Sam out.

_Come on, Sam, this is what you wanted, _he scolded himself, spearing his broccoli savagely. _If Dean is suddenly okay with all of this, why question him? You don't need to dissect the motivation behind every decision he makes._

But that was the problem, because Sam _did_. He _needed _to know the motivations behind _everyone's _decisions, and whenever something was off, he just couldn't let it go. He'd analyze it to death, pester the person to _talktalktalktalk_, and generally just _not let it go_. He wasn't sure why he'd ended up that way, although he suspected it had something to do with the intense emotional sublimation he'd endured growing up. Like, while his father avoided expressing emotion like the plague, Sam had ended up on the other side of the pendulum, needing to draw emotions out.

He'd probably just read too many psychology books.

He pretended to concentrate on cutting his broccoli, all the while peering at Dean out of the corner of his eye. He looked relaxed, animated. _Too _animated, leaning forward on the table towards Amelia, outlining partially-true stories with his hands as if he could conjure them directly from the table. _Nice show you're putting on there_, Sam thought.

"…and you should see the way the guy worships his salad. The way he leers at a salad bar is _disgusting, _like he's just two steps away from stroking it and muttering _My precious _or something." Dean grinned. "And then he says 'organic' like the word's friggin sacred."

Okay. So maybe Dean wasn't a perfect gentleman, but when had he ever been?

"At least I don't cuddle up with my pie and serenade it," Sam muttered at his plate.

Dean pointed his fork at him. "You just don't get it, do you, Sam? Pie _deserves _worship. Spinach does not." His eyes grew more amused. "Although, looks like you've got something against that broccoli."

Sam's eyes focused on his plate, and his meticulously mutilated vegetables. The broccoli now looked like a mass of green mush; vegetable guts. He poked at it gingerly with his fork.

"Oh."

Dean laughed.

"So what have you been doing, this past year? Sam told me how you two lost contact." The way Amelia phrased it, so perfect and polite, made Sam want to hug her. He almost did. But Dean's face darkened, and Sam worried his brother was going to be launched into another violent flashback before a semblance of a laugh escaped from his lips.

Sam blinked, and Dean was smiling again. "Hey, if I tell all of my stories in one sitting, you won't want to keep me 'round. Got to be a _little_ mysterious." He waggled his eyebrows, and Amelia giggled. _You are so _not _flirting with my girlfriend._ "I want to hear about you. Any fun Christmas stories?" Dean leaned forward conspiratorially. ""Did Santa visit?"

Amelia hid her face in her hands and groaned, which Sam secretly thought was absolutely adorable. "God. I don't want to hear about Santa," she said.

"Hm?"

"It was the news this morning…"

oOo

There were three bodies on the barroom floor, and no one was doing a thing. There was a long period of silence, in which Kate got paler and paler under the scrutiny of the wizards and the whatever-they-were's until she looked ready to hit the floor herself. Mr. Tumnus kept a firm hold on her sleeve just in case.

Eventually, the witch in maroon heaved herself onto a table, evidently to address the other patrons in her rolling, garbled voice. "Seein' as this here's a wizarding establishment, the Wizengamot has legal jurisdiction. She should be Apparated to England and tried for murder."

The silence broken, a wave of whispering washed over the bar. A scrawny wizard in blue leaped up onto an opposing table. "Not true!" he squeaked. "The American Wizarding community established its independence hundreds of years ago! Just because _some _people like to pretend the Revolution didn't happen doesn't mean that a murder committed on American soil can't be solved by an American wizarding judiciary!"

"_The Old Hat _'s an area of concurrent jurisdiction," pointed out the maroon witch. "Seein' as i' one of a branch of pubs based in the UK."

"No, the international laws are subsidiary in this case!"

"Nonsense," a rumbling voice said ominously. A huge hooded thing—was that a half-troll?—stood up from his seat and planted a single foot on top of a table. When he tried to put some of his weight on it, it snapped into splinters. "Both the victim and the accomplice to the murder are magical creatures not bound by wizarding law. Under the Defense of Magical Creatures and Independent Magical Nations Act, they should be tried by an international board of representatives from the North Pole, America, the Wizengamot and—where are you from?"

Mr. Tumnus swallowed audibly, and tried to think of what Patrick Stewart would do, provided he didn't have a taser.

"I... I'm from Narnia," he whispered. "And I, uh… have diplomatic immunity?"

oOo

Dean asked the question the moment they were left alone, doing dishes while Amelia prepped for a movie night. Except, it wasn't really a question.

"Dude. We _have _to take this case."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, waving a towel with his other hand. "I can't _believe _we're having this conversation. I _told _you already, and I thought you were ready to accept that I—"

"_Relax, _Sam, I'm not planning on interrupting your quality time with Amelia or whatever. I mean, New York is a long friggin drive away from Texas, but I'm sure if we made the right noises at Cas, he'd be willing to pop us there and back in time for—"

"_What?_" The towel dropped out of Sam's hand. He looked around quickly before leaning in to whisper, "Are you _seriously _suggesting what I _think _you're suggesting?"

Dean spread his sudsy hands, and smiled the cocksure smile Sam had learned to dread. "Sure Sam, what's the problem? It's like having a day job. You help me handle the freaks in the mornings, you get your freak _on _in the evenings—"

"No. Shut up." Sam took a moment to think; anything to get him out of this situation. "Would Cas even be able to do this? I thought he was doing his own thing now."

The smile died a little, and Dean shrugged. "All I'm saying is, it's on the table. You willing to give it a go or not?"

"Dean, you're asking me to _lie _to her. You want me to hunt in the day, and make Amelia think we're just hanging out at the house while she's at work? I can't do that."

And Sam knew that was the wrong thing to saw as soon as he said it, as soon as he saw Dean stiffen dangerously and set his washcloth on the edge of the sink. His brother's eyes turned around the room slowly, seeming to search for something, before returning to Sam.

"Right. Because trust is the foundation of your relationship."

Sam didn't flinch. His fists clenched.

"Because, of course you've told her everything about us, what we do—"

"What I _used _to do."

"What you _still _do. Damn it, Sam, it's just the same old song and dance with you, isn't it? Look, I'm sorry our jobs suck, I'm sorry our _lives _suck, but if this is your idea of running away again to live a happy little normal life, I can tell you straight up that it's just not going to work ou—"

"Shut. Up." Sam's ears were ringing, and he realized dimly that he'd practically impaled his finger into Dean's chest. He decided he didn't care. "Amelia and me? It's not about you, you asshole. This isn't me running away to 'normality,' this is me being in _love. _I _love _her. So if I don't want to sneak around hunting like some dick, if I want to protect her, you _damn _well can't tell me how to do it."

Dean shoved his finger away, and let out a short, clipped laugh. "Protect her? That's hilarious, Sam, because last I recall, _protecting _people didn't involve keeping them in the dark. We've had some personal experience, remember?"

Sam's face was a thundercloud. He opened his mouth to respond, but a clear voice interrupted.

"Hurry and finish washing up! The movie's all set!"

oOo

Mr. Tumnus' declaration didn't have the desired effect. It only managed to launch a general debate on whether or not the gnomes of Algeria should declare war on Narnia, then, given the current political climate. It lasted a long time, only interrupted momentarily when Kate tried to sneak out of the door and someone cast an _incarcerous _on her.

oOo

The movie was, if possible, more awkward than dinner. Not because Dean had managed to wedge himself in between Sam and Amelia, and was yelling instructions to the characters on the screen, but because Sam was being _pensive._ Amelia flashed him concerned looks every now and then, wondering bemusedly what on earth in _MIB II _had managed to get him into such a state.

The movie was irrelevant, though, to Sam. He was wrestling with a choice, one that he didn't even know he had the option of making. He doubted that Dean even knew that he'd brought that choice to light, brought in that revolutionary idea. He knew Dean didn't believe he was sincere when he said that he loved Amelia, and that only made the choice more surprising, more important. _Could he tell her?_

He glanced at her sidelong, and couldn't deny that he loved her this way, unsullied by his past life, untouched by the world of monsters. But he felt that he knew, too, that it was her strength that she most admired, that he wouldn't have pursued her if she didn't have the stuff necessary to survive in the kind of world he lived in, should she ever become involved.

Should she become involved? That was the question. If he loved her, really loved her, would he come clean, tell her everything even if she thought he was crazy? Or would he shelter her in a cocoon of sunlight, lie to her gently and protect her from it? The best solution, he had thought, was to leave her, and thus remove her from the world of monsters. He had failed that. Then he had been trying, with his whole being, to cut _himself _out of it, but Dean was right, and Bobby, his father and anyone who'd ever told him that hunting was in his bones and his blood, and he'd never be able to escape. So he was torn between this, this paternal, sheltering love, and his childish devotion to her.

He felt he was on a threshold, as if he could open his mouth right then, in one moment of insanity, and say _Oh, I haven't shot any aliens, but I kill monsters for a living. _One breath and two seconds, and he'd change everything. It would be so easy. Lives were really just a collection of small fits of insanity, after all, uncalculated, spur-of-the-moment decisions. All he'd have to do is part his spit-sealed lips and let it rip.

He breathed in. Opened his mouth…

"I've been trying to get Sam here to accept a job offer," Dean said off-handedly, as the credits rolled.

…and choked on his own air.

"As a mechanic? Sam's awfully attached to his job right now. I've been thinking that it's probably unhealthy, that I should drag him over to help at the Animal Hospital." Amelia looked over fondly at him, and Sam felt his chest warm. But that might have been because he was suffocating.

Dean's eyes twinkled. "No, working as a mechanic is a bit beneath my brother. I was thinking something more along the lines of what he was doing before. Investigative work."

"I knew it!" Amelia crowed, "You two were private detectives!"

Dean smiled toothily. "We specialize and everything," he said. "Anyway. Considering the shit we've pulled in the past—and it's been pretty crazy—I just wanted to let you both know that if he decides to take the job, it would be regular. Daytime hours, warning in advance before night jobs."

"That sounds fine." Amelia smiled, remembering how Sam had described working with his brother so wistfully, before. Vaguely, yes, but wistfully. She hoped Sam didn't think he had to give that up, whatever it was, now that they lived together. "But I can't speak for Sam, of course."

"Yeah, it's just fine," Sam squeaked. And the moment passed.

oOo

Castiel was standing at the top of Mount Rushmore when he heard the call. It was deserted at the moment, and the angel felt he needed to be someplace utterly alone to work out whatever was going on inside of his head.

He hadn't told the Winchesters about it but lately… time felt distorted, like he was in two places at once, switching between two realities. He was plagued, too, by a sense that he had something important to tell the boys; critical information that needed to be acted upon right away, but… he could never recall exactly what it was. His head hurt just thinking about it.

After he had left Dean and hunting- _why had that felt so necessary at the time? _Castiel had been wandering; overhearing snatches of prayers, and, knowing the Heavenly Host wasn't given to answering them, showing up in person. He'd been healing, counseling, helping old ladies carry groceries, and… it wasn't enough.

He still hadn't returned to Heaven, and he felt like a coward. He couldn't even recall exactly _why_ he hadn't returned, when he was so sure he had intended to, the moment he said he couldn't stay with the Winchesters. Trying to remember this made his head ache, as well.

But he had plenty of time, so he stared ahead at the blue horizon, and tried to puzzle it out.

Then he heard the prayer.

It was a loud prayer, the loudest he'd ever heard, aside from Dean's occasional tirades. It appeared to be the prayer of a small girl, and went something like this:

_**IDON'TWANTTODIEIDON'TWANTTODIEPLEASEDON'TLETMEDIEGODPLEASEHELPMEGETO UTTAHEREPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE…**_

Castiel was standing at the top of Mount Rushmore when he disappeared.

oOo

Both Kate and Mr. Tumnus were tied up by the time their rescuer arrived. Meanwhile, the argument in the bar over their fate had become a fistfight—a real-life barroom brawl.

"FOR THE REVOLUTION!" the scrawny blue wizard screeched, lifting a stool twice his side and conking it over the head of the maroon-clad witch.

"FOR ALGERIA!" a tiny, sharp-toothed creature shouted, leaping into the air and sinking its teeth into the half-troll's calf.

"FOR NARNIA! " a confused pixie called, before crashing into a window.

Kate and Mr. Tumnus managed to wriggle themselves under a table for shelter, but after a few minutes a huge creature lifted it right up from over them, presumably so that he could squash the blue wizard with it. A couple of gnomes began creeping up on the pair, muttering something about _executions _and _declarations of war._

Mr. Tumnus found himself, for the first time in a long while, praying to Aslan to intercede. When he looked over at Kate, he found her praying too, eyes screwed tight, lips moving rapidly.

Just about then, a man appeared.

oOo

The man looked momentarily surprised by the mayhem, and he took a step back, as if to assess the situation. Eventually his eyes met Mr. Tumnus', and then moved over to Kate's prone body. She'd passed out. His mouth turned up at the corners, his eyes crinkled, and chills ran up Mr. Tumnus spine. There was something ancient and powerful in those eyes, Mr. Tumnus could tell, and he was afraid of it.

Then, seemingly nonchalant, the man walked into the center of the bar, took a moment to regard the chair flying directly towards him, and then, with a voice that made the ground shake and the windows crack and the chair split clean in two, said, "_**CEASE.**_"

They room went silent, and all turned to stare at him.

The man didn't seem to care. He turned back to Mr. Tumnus and Kate, untied them, and asked Mr. Tumnus, very politely, where they lived.

"…wait." a very small voice said. It turned out to be the blue wizard, who now sported two black eyes and a nasty-looking bite mark on his leg. "You can't take them. They committed a crime."

The man turned his ancient eyes on him, and the blue wizard quailed.

"What crime?" the man said reasonably.

The silence grew oppressive as everyone in the bar tried to remember what the crime was.

"She… she used black magic on Quirinus Quirrell," the maroon witch finally volunteered. "I saw the whole thing. She made him keel right over. And… and… she should be tried… by the Wizengamot…"

The blue wizard glared daggers at her, but didn't say anything.

"Ah. I see." the man said. He turned to look at Kate for a while longer before returning his attention to the room at large. "However, this girl is a Christian. So I believe I have, as you say, 'jurisdiction.'"

oOo

Dean Winchester was by no means a devout man, yet he was very faithful about saying his evening prayers. They'd become more frequent lately, he knew, a short little _hope you're doin' okay out there Cas_, or something lengthier if he was feeling buzzed. It was unbearably sappy, he was sure, and neither of them talked about it, which he was grateful for.

Tonight, his prayers were only slightly little less embarrassing.

"_Dammit, Cas, you said you'd be back here tonight!_" Dean seethed, pacing around Amelia's living room like a caged animal. He shook his fist at the ceiling, and Sam barely kept himself from laughing. He almost wished Amelia were awake to see how ridiculous his brother looked. "_I need to talk to you! So I swear, you're gonna get your feathery butt down here or I'm gonna—" _

He never got to complete his threat though, because Castiel chose just that moment to appear, characteristically, practically on top of him.

Dean stumbled backward, and collapsed onto the couch. "I apologize," Castiel said, completely blasé. Dean was seized by a momentary urge to strangle him, because he just _knew _the sonuvabitch did it on purpose, but Sam, being the meddlesome brat that he was, interrupted that train of thought.

"Dean and I wanted to make a request," he said calmly, indicating with his eyes that Dean should continue.

He took a deep, settling breath. "Yeah. Me an' Sam were wondering if you'd pop us somewhere in New York in the morning, you know, as a favor. And bring us back at around 7. Hope it won't put too much of a cramp on" he waved his hand vaguely, "_whatever _it is you're doing. And, uh." he hesitated. "It might be kind of a regular thing."

"It won't be a problem," Castiel assured him. A beat. "You said New York."

Sam leaned forward, interested. "Yeah, around Vestal. Something wrong?"

"I was just there…"

.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Almost Adventures of Sensible Kate Milligan**

**Chapter Six: In which Voldemort gets a new wardrobe and Benny is accosted**

One of the most useful skills Qurinus Quirrell possessed was the ability to pass out at will. He'd discovered just how useful when he was fifteen, and it saved him from having to deal with a group of particularly sadistic Hufflepuff bullies. It turned out that people were like most predators, in that they lose interest in their quarry very quickly when it loses consciousness.

So as a defensive tactic, it was gold.

He opened his eyes just when things were beginning to really heat up in the bar—chairs being thrown, heads smashed on the ground. He inched over to the body of Saint Nick, tugged at the big man's red sleeve. Smiled when the coat slid clean off.

_I've done it, my Lord,_ he whispered unnecessarily. _I have not failed you this time._

The Dark Lord didn't reply, but Quirrell felt a surge of pleasure that wasn't his own, and was relieved. Initially, when Quirrell failed obtaining the Philosopher's Stone from Gringotts, Voldemort had possessed him intending to pursue the magical artifact at Hogwarts. But Quirrell was nothing if not terrified of the Hogwarts staff, so he'd begged, and pleaded, and yes, _cried_ until the Dark Lord relented and gave him three days to come up with another course of action. The begging might have killed him if the Dark Lord was in a better position, but Quirrekk knew no one had been in his corner for eleven years, and he _needed _him alive.

Quirrell was also nothing if not organized, so using his extensive knowledge of Magical Theory and his color-coded binder, he had, in an hour in a half, compiled a sizable list of ways to become immortal that _didn't _ involve getting tangled up with Hogwarts.

The Dark Lord was not impressed. However, he did agree to hunt down Santa Claus—the most magical and powerful being known, excluding Albus Dumbledore, and one he held a personal grudge against for refusing to side with him the last time he'd taken over magical Britain. Apparently, the jolly old elf "wasn't _that_ much of a bastard."

Added bonus: the guy's suit endowed one with all of his magical powers, including immortality.

oOo

"So let me get this straight," Dean said, trying to stay calm. So far, it wasn't working. "You popped into the _exact _town we're talking about, you _saw _the _corpse _of_ Santa Claus, _and you did _nothing?_"

Castiel frowned. "I freed the girl who had prayed for assistance. The details didn't seem important at the time."

"Didn't seem impor—gah!" Dean spluttered. "What am I going to do with you?"

Castiel's frown deepened.

"I think what he's trying to say Cas," Sam said apologetically, "Is that, well, we just heard of a possible case around Vestal recently, and it looks like something's been killing off all the people who've dressed up as Santa Claus in the region. Salvation Army workers, people at charity events, parades… you name it. Thing is, there've been no external signs of wounds, so the police think they've all just died of heart attacks."

"…can't leave him on his own, you can see that, right Sam? Walks into a friggin crime scene, decides it doesn't seem _important_, rescues a suspect and flies off like nothing happened!" Dean continued, heedless of the interruption.

"You really think an eleven year old girl is our prime suspect for mass murder, Dean?"

"Shut up Sam!" Dean snapped. He pointed a finger at Castiel. "Your flying privileges are revoked, man. Don't look at me like that. You need supervision."

Castiel looked _livid_, and Sam could tell that if he didn't change the subject, things were gonna get real ugly, real fast.

He let out an exaggerated yawn. "Well, I'm beat. Dunno 'bout you two, but I'm gonna get some shuteye. Thanks for agreeing to take us tomorrow, Cas. Dean, the guest bedroom is upstairs and to the right. And, um." He looked awkwardly between his brother and the angel, who were still glaring at each other. "There's only the one bed, so."

"I don't require sleep," Castiel sighed. As if he was sick to death of explaining that to them. "But thank you for your concern, Sam."

All the same, you wouldn't mind, ah, maybe, um, taking the couch, or—"

"I'll be fine" Castiel grumbled. "I'm going to get some coffee." He stumped off to the kitchen with a final, pointed glare at the older hunter, _I'll destroy you later _written all over his face. Dean waited until he was reasonably sure he was out of earshot before turning back to Sam.

"Dude. _Coffee?_"

"I dunno, man. He seems to like it."

Dean groaned. "Awesome. Just what we need. A caffeinated angel."

Sam shook his head slightly, trying to hide a smile. He thought about his conversation with the angel the other day, and how the guy had ended up drinking eleven cups in one sitting. Amelia had tried not to gape, and had stocked up that very night.

"…Dean."

"Hm?"

"Why did you come here today? What made you change your mind?"

"Sam—"

"I want to know."

Dean sighed heavily, seeming to fold in on himself. "I dunno. It's just—I think Cas really wanted me to, and you know how he's been lately, Sam. And, well I." He swallowed. "I wanted to say that I'm sorry."

"What?"

"For, for being a dick about this. I mean, I can't say I agree with what you're doing, I still think it's damn stupid and a bad idea, but hey." He looked at his fingers. "None of my business. And I'm still… _mad. _About a lot of things. But I shouldn't give you hell about it. Probably."

Sam gaped. "So in the kitchen, that was…?"

Dean held up his hands. "Sorry about that, too. I'm not perfect."

"…okay."

Dean snickered. "_It's okay, Dean, we all knew you were a jerk from the beginning,_" he said in a high pitched voice, as if Sam sounded _anything _like that.

Sam punched him on the shoulder. "I didn't say that, you jerk!"

"But you say it now!"

They laughed and punched each other some more, until they were standing, clasping each other's shoulders and grinning like lunatics.

"So. I'm actually going to bed now," Sam said.

"Yeah. Yeah, me too."

And they walked upstairs. Castiel, cradling his mug of coffee and leaning against the wall by the kitchen, let out a small sigh. It looked like his family was going to stay intact after all.

oOo

"I'm home," Kate said wonderingly, when she came to. "And in my bed. Not dead."

She found Mr. Tumnus curled up at her feet, like some type of weird humanoid dog. She jiggled her feet to wake him up.

"We're home," she whispered. He nodded blearily. "How?"

"After you prayed," he yawned. "A man showed up to take us home. Said he was 'n angel."

"Oh." Kate stilled. "Well, that's a testimony-builder."

oOo

Quirrell didn't feel more powerful when he put on the oversized red suit. He felt ridiculous. And he had an inexplicable urge to eat cookies.

_Tessst it out, _the Dark Lord whispered. So Quirrell shrugged to himself, and waved his hand.

A plate of fragrant cookies appeared a foot from his shoe. A glass of milk popped into existence a moment later.

"_Score,_" Quirrell said. "I can Transfigure food now. From _water vapor_."

The Dark Lord sighed. This imbecile was giving him a migraine. _Good. Now Apparate usss to the North Pole sssso we can make preparationssss for war._

"Yeah, yeah. Just a moment, my Lord. I'm having these cravings…" He sat and began to wolf down the cookies.

_Now, you fool!_

They disappeared.

oOo

Mantus never knocked. That was not the main reason why Crowley hated him, although it was definitely up there.

No, the _main _reason why Crowley hated the demon was a creepy way he whispered straight into his ear whenever he had something to report. Crowley lived in terror that someday, that disgusting little tongue was going to actually touch his face, and he was going to lose it. Tear the head off of his most loyal follower.

"_There's been a change in management on Earth,_" the demon hissed. Crowley _didn't _jump a few inches in his seat and spit out his obscenely expensive Scotch, because the King of Hell just didn't _do _that. _Count to ten, Crowley, _he thought. _Don'tkillhim one, don'tkillhim two…_

"If it's Mohammed Morsi who kicked the bucket," he said tersely, wiping up his not-spilled scotch with his elegantly embroidered handkerchief, "we have a contingency plan. Just plug in the new guy, Quandil or Badie or what's his face. I have more important things to worry about."

"Yes, the tablets," Mantus sighed, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly. _**DON'T**__killhim five, __**DON'T**__killhim six… _"No, Egypt is progressing smoothly. I was talking about the North Pole." A lecherous, knowing smile grew on his face.

_Don't__**KILLHIM **__eight, don't__**KILLHIM… **__North Pole?_

"So the geezer finally got it," Crowley shrugged, dislodging Mantus' hand. "Can't say I'm surprised. His replacement's bound to be snarfing cookies and rescuing kittens about now. Why do I care?"

"Because…ah… the new Mr. Claus appears to be going by the name of _The Dark Lord_. It wouldn't be too far amiss to greet the incumbent, surely…?"

Crowley stood up abruptly, nearly knocking Mantus over. "That cereal box Darth Vader knockoff!" he growled. "That _twat… _he's still _alive_?"

"More or less," Mantus breathed. "You…?"

"Oh, we have _history._" Crowley smiled dangerously. "Well, I'm off. People to kill, diplomatic relations to forge."

oOo

Dean was in favor of immediately questioning the girl Castiel had rescued, but Sam insisted that they begin the hunt like they would any other.

"Cas said that there was a lot of fighting going on in the bar when he arrived, the likelihood that the _one _girl had anything to do with it—"

"Is pretty dang high! Sam, the wizard dude or whoever Cas talked to _said _that she'd done some black magic; she's probably some witch brat who didn't get what she wanted for Christmas—"

"You _never start a case with a suspect_, Dean! First rules of hunting! We should look into the other vics first. Like we always do."

"I think it highly improbable that she is responsible for these deaths," Castiel volunteered. "I could sense no evil about her person."

The brothers stared.

"We'll keep that in mind," Dean snarked. "But as I was saying—"

"—we should question the charity workers first. I know." Sam walked off, barely concealing a smug smile.

"I wasn't going to say that!"

oOo

Quirrell scratched the thick white whiskers growing on his cheek uncomfortably. He'd gained ten pounds in as many hours, and he felt bloated and sick. In the back of his mind, he could hear Lord Voldemort groaning something about lactose intolerance.

"Merlin, I know," Quirrell muttered. "I can't help it. It's like a _compulsion_."

"Merlin was an arrogant rat," an unfamiliar voice said behind him. "He made a better tree than wizard."

Quirrell spun on his heel, to meet the eyes of a very short, very sinister-looking man.

"You aren't the Voldemort I know," the man said calmly. His eyes flashed scarlet. "You have a better complexion."

oOo

Benny had been moving around a lot lately. His cravings for blood were getting stronger all the time, and he could raid only so much blood from trauma hospitals in one area before people started asking questions.

He hated packaged blood. Too many platelets.

And he probably should be avoiding people, too, but he decided on public transportation as an exercise in self-discipline. In absence of a bus or subway, he'd hang out by parks and playgrounds. Remind himself why he wasn't bleeding people dry.

Sometimes, it was hard to remember. And it didn't help that Dean—his brother in arms, his only friend—had stopped returning his calls. He could understand it, he supposed, but he could really use a coffee and a sympathetic ear, once in a while. Someone who understood who he was, who'd been through some of the same experiences. It made things easier.

This month he was spending in New York. The city was too much for him, too much sensory stimulation, lights, and people milling around _constantly_. So he went upstate, to the border of Pennsylvania, hanging out in Broome County where people turned their lights off at night and more or less kept to themselves. He took buses everywhere, never staying on one place too long. It was Wilson one day, Lourdes the next. He shuffled between hospitals like a cancer patient.

One day, he was sitting on one of these buses, peaceably fidgeting with his now-useless cellphone and thinking about how he kinda missed Purgatory, after all, when he was discovered.

By an eleven-year old girl.

He hadn't said anything. He hadn't made eye contact with anyone. But here, this little eleven-year-old girl sidled up next to him with her bare-chested companion, and Benny closed his eyes and tried to think about anything other than the blood he could hear rushing through their veins, and she said, "You're a _vampire_, aren't you."

"Sorry?"

"I said, you're a vampire, aren't you."

"I heard you. I mean, uh, what?"

"You're cold. And you don't have a pulse. And you're always at hospitals. Ergo, vampire."

"Where's your mother?"

"At work," the girl said placidly. "I help out some as a volunteer at the cafeteria in Lourdes. You have coffee. Like, _all the time_. I met a reaper in the cafeteria once, too. She was nice."

"This is my stop," Benny said.

"No, it isn't. You're stop is after mine anyway, you're always here when I get off. I thought vampires couldn't go out in sunlight. Is that what the sunglasses are for?"

"Um, maybe your father's around here."

"No, Mr. Tumnus is looking after me today." The girl nodded at the bare chested young man next to her. Said young man swallowed and looked at Benny with wide, terrified eyes. "So I'm perfectly safe."

Benny sighed. "You shouldn't talk to strangers, kid."

"We're not strangers. You've ordered coffee from me at least fifteen times. I even know your name. It's Benny."

Benny was not the alias he had been using.

"You need an adult watching over you."

"Oh," she said dismissively, "That's alright. I look after myself pretty well, Mom says. Anyway, you've been looking pretty lonely, lately, in the cafeteria. I thought maybe you could do with some conversation."

Benny stared. Slowly, he took out his phone, and dialed Dean's number.

oOo

The first day of investigations was a bust. The charity workers had nothing to say, except that there had been a brief flash of light about the time that their paid Santa died. There were no hex bags.

"Angelic activity?" Sam wondered aloud. Castiel looked at him like he was stupid.

The bodies, too, had nothing to offer. The coroner's report was useless, there was nothing on the X-rays, no unusual tattoos, and even when Castiel sniffed the body, to everyone's chagrin, he couldn't find a cause of death.

"Well, they had to have died from _something_! Dean said, arms flailing. Sam groaned.

"I have nothing. I've never heard of a monster that could do something like this."

"Looks like Cas's little girl is our only lead, then." Dean tried not to sound smug.

His phone rang.

.


End file.
